Talk, young Foley
by Angel Reid . Tobias Dominik
Summary: Richie has a talk with Mr. Hawkins...


Title: Talk, Young Foley.  
  
Author: Angel Reid  
  
Summary: Mr. Hawkins wants to talk to Richie about his home life...  
  
Spoilers: Nope. Well, a little to Sons of. The Fathers...I spose...  
  
Rating: pg-13. Swearing, mentions of abuse.  
  
Warnings: The usual. If you don't know what the usual is by now...**sad sigh** Mostly, though, it's abuse, angst, and swearing on the occasion.  
  
Disclaimer: This is never easy to say. **sighs** Okay. I do not own Static, no matter how much I wish I did. There is no way I ever will, unless I become rich and famous and BUY it from the original owners. And do you see me getting rich yet? ...No, didn't think so. So there.  
  
Distribution: You want it, you ask. Got it?  
  
A/N: (optional): I was watching 'Linked' and, lo and behold, Richie was there, with the Hawkins. (He never goes home! I swear, he lives in Virgil's closet...which is befitting for him. XD It's a well furbished closet.) Honestly, I thought Mr. Hawkins was going to say "This is my daughter Sharon, and my sons, Virgil and Richie"...  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Richie, come in here for a moment. I want to talk to you."  
  
Richie looked up form the t.v. Virgil had gone to the store, leaving Richie in the Hawkins' living room, watching the Sunday Report. Sharon glanced at the door to the kitchen, where her father had called form, as Richie stood up.  
  
"Sure thing, Mr. H. Be right in."  
  
Entering the kitchen, he tossed a glance at Sharon, who shrugged. Richie had spent the entire weekend at the Hawkins residence, and while Virgil wouldn't let him help with the groceries, Richie spent most of the morning, while Virgil was still fast asleep, cleaning up.  
  
Mr. Hawkins sat at the table, and motioned at Richie to do that same. Slightly nervous that his best friend's father wanted to talk to him, the blond sat, fiddling with the strings on his sweatshirt. Even though it was the middle of June, the teen still wore his sweatshirt everywhere.  
  
"What did you want to talk to me about, sir?"  
  
Mr. Hawkins folded his hands, leaning forward a bit to look at Richie. The boy had been at his house constantly, more and more since his father was on strike. It worried him a bit. Whenever Richie's mother called, the blond was always arguing about going home. It was always ' I'll be home after he goes to sleep' or 'I'm staying another night. Why don't you go to Aunt Mary's?'  
  
"I just wanted to talk. How's school?"  
  
Richie had seen Mr. H work these tactics a thousand times before; he knew where this was heading. But he decided to play along. If he trusted any adult, it was Mr. Hawkins. The man had known him for over four years, and he'd seen the community center worker handle a thousand kids just like him.  
  
"Good, I guess. My grades aren't as high as my father," he spat out the words, "would like, but besides that it's okay. No one's picking on me or anything as of late."  
  
Robert Hawkins had always suspected Richie didn't like his father. Whenever the man was around, Richie was stiff, formal...anything but himself. The man thought that Richie's constant visits may have something to do with his father, but he had never voiced his thoughts aloud to the teen, or his son.  
  
"That's good. How is it at home?"  
  
Richie sighed. He had known that one was coming. Mr. Hawkins was a great guy, but Richie didn't want him to tell him about his home life, not one bit. Of course, he was barely ever home, so it was more like a home visit then a home life, but that was beside the point. He was constantly at the Hawkins residence; he should have known the question would come up about why he was never home. He could lie; tell Mr. Hawkins that home life was perfectly fine, thank you, and could you possibly change the subject? But he knew the man wouldn't drop the subject.  
  
"It's...not."  
  
Mr. Hawkins raised an eyebrow.  
  
"What do you mean, Richie?"  
  
Richie shrugged, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Hawkins. He rubbed his arm, which was still sore from when his father had grabbed it Friday...  
  
// Flashback \\  
  
"Where do you think you're going, boy" Richie's eyes widened as he looked up, the hand on his arm tightening as his eyes connected with those of his fathers.  
  
"I'm going to Virgil's for the weekend." The words were spat out in anger as the teen tried to tear his arm from his fathers grip. Mr. Foley stared hard at his son, eyes narrowing.  
  
"No you're not. You're to stay home and do your chores, boy." The hand tightened to a bruising grasp, and Richie let out a startled squeak of pain.  
  
"Dad, stop it. You're hurting me...please, let me go." The panic in Richie's voice rose as the grip on his arm tightened, twisting his arm behind his back to march him into the kitchen. A pile of dishes sat in the previously empty sink, most of them sparkling still.  
  
"Do the dishes, boy, their filthy." Richie's eyes swept along the counter, noting how most of the dishes had just been cleaned. His eyes narrowed; no way was he washing clean dishes again.  
  
"Half of those are already clean, dad. I'll clean the dirty one's, but I'm not redoing the other ones." The man pushed the teen towards the kitchen sink, hard.  
  
"You'll do them all, or you won't be doing ANYTHING. Understand?" Richie nodded meekly, and went to work on the dishes in silence.  
  
//End flashback||  
  
"Richie? Are you okay, son?"  
  
Richie flinched at the words, looking up startled. The blondes eyes widened slightly as Mr. Hawkins touched his arm gently. Wincing at the slight pain, the teen looked down at his hands, ashamed and a little afraid that somehow the blame of the dark purple bruises would fall on him.  
  
"I...I don't know. He...My dad doesn't understand and...he's not use to me not listening to his every word and I suppose that's why he thinks he needs to use so much pressure and stuff...it just hurts a lot, so I don't go home."  
  
The words spilled from his mouth against his will, and Richie clamped one hand over his mouth, eyes wide. He hadn't meant for anyone to find out; not even Virgil knew, and the other teen knew practically everything about him. Mr. Hawkins stared at him for a good moment, then stood up, walking around the table to stand next to Richie.  
  
"Richie, let me look at your arm. I want to help you out."  
  
Richie hesitantly pulled his sleeve up his arm, and Mr. Hawkins gently took the arm to inspect it. The bruise was large and purplish blue, and Richie turned his face away, not wanting to see it. Mr. Hawkins went to the freezer. Taking some ice out, wrapped it in a cloth and placed it on the swollen appendix. The contrast of cool material on hot skin caused Richie to shiver, and his gaze returned once more to the man standing before him.  
  
"Richie, why didn't you tell anyone? This is child abuse, and you know it. You're a smart boy, Richie. Why do you let him hurt you like this?"  
  
Richie supposed it was because deep down, he was still the little boy who wanted daddy to be proud of him. Still wanted to be the perfect son he once was, at one point in time. He couldn't tell if it was him growing up, or his father staying the same that caused these fights; he was betting on both, though.  
  
"If I tell someone, do you really think they'd believe me, Mr. Hawkins? He's a well respected man. I'm a delinquent teenager."  
  
Mr. Hawkins shook his head. He didn't like seeing this smart young man, his son's best friend, in so much pain and discomfort. He was like a second son to him, and he planned on making sure the young man knew this.  
  
"I believed you, Richie. Please, let me help...your always welcome here, you know."  
  
Richie smiled up at the man, and Mr. Hawkins saw a ray of light enter Richie's eyes.  
  
"I always have."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Okay, this totally didn't turn out as planned...but my glasses snapped in half, so I've been walking around blind; hence forth I have headaches, hence forth I write angst. XD Review! 


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